


they send you down to war

by paxlux



Category: The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:51:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, it rains ash.  Some days, it rains blood.  Some days, it rains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they send you down to war

Some days, it rains ash.

-

Sometimes, after he’s squeezed the trigger on a breath, he presses two fingers to the tattoo on his chest. He pretends his body warmth is the kick of flames around the immaculate heart. Instead of roses, there are thorns.

He lets the thorns protect the heart, like a wall of barbed wire.

Every day, every time he closes his eyes, every time he opens his eyes, every time he wakes screaming, it all chips away at his faith. He mumbles a prayer occasionally, but it doesn't matter. _Lo sé_ , he tells himself, _lo sé_. He has faith in other things.

His team plays cards.

He cleans his rifle.

He watches Jensen grin, light flashing off his glasses.

Cougar has faith in other things.

-

Roque is wearing some sort of hat. At least, Jensen thinks it’s a hat, but then again, Roque’s told him he’ll shoot him for thinking, so Jensen keeps it to himself that maybe it’s a hat and maybe it’s some sort of object from a bet Jensen missed out on.

He squints at Roque and Roque glares back and Jensen shrugs with a _glad I’m not you, buddy_ smile. 

“I thought only Cougar could wear a hat,” he says because safety isn’t his number one priority.

Pooch smirks and Clay pretends to look for a wrench. Roque’s glare intensifies, like this motherfucking heat, but Jensen just shrugs.

“Just sayin’. Should I compliment you on the hat, Superfly?”

Cougar shifts enough that Jensen can see the glint of his eyes under the brim because when you think Cougar’s sleeping, he isn’t, and when you think he isn’t, he is. Actually, Cougar’s a bit of a ninja, like his namesake, a prowly feline ninja of the human persuasion, but right now, Roque’s got murder in his eye.

“You can’t murder me, Roque.”

“The hell I can’t,” Roque says, sorting through ammo, as if that’s going to intimidate Jensen. Pfft.

“You can’t. You _can’t_. It’s _physically_ impossible.” He waits a beat because Pooch and Clay are slightly leaning forward to hear better and he can feel Cougar’s gaze on him like fingers. “You could never murder me because I’m too cute. It’d be like killing a puppy.”

Pooch’s smirk grows. Clay crosses his arms like he’s waiting to see where this goes. And since they haven’t had a work-related safety incident in a few days, Jensen plucks the hat-like object off Roque’s head.

Roque points a bullet at him. “You’ve been thinking again, haven’t you.”

Jensen grins. 

-

Some days, it rains blood.

-

It’s laundry day. Pooch’s clothes are covered in grease and oil. Clay’s smell like alcohol. Roque's has mysterious stains as if he found a morgue and rolled around in it. Cougar’s has dust and sweat and that particular odor Jensen calls “waiting.” Jensen’s t-shirt has little holes burnt in odd places and there are black streaks on his pants.

All of them smell like smoke and explosions and death.

-

Jensen stares at the cursor on his laptop, his fingers twitching as his brain runs through lines of imaginary code for the mission ahead. The copter's rotors chop through his thoughts like his heartbeat and he wonders if a string of numbers, letters, symbols will be the last thing he sees, he'll be watching something no one else can understand. A bullet to the back of the head, maybe right at his neck, where his skull connects to his spine. He won't get a chance to collect that $50 from Roque, or get his pirate hat back from Clay. He won't get to meet Pooch's little pooch and he's got a fucking bet riding on that baby, it's gonna look like Jolene, he knows it.

He won't get to say goodbye to his sister or his niece.

He won't get to see Cougar's dark eyes again.

He stares at the cursor on his laptop and ignores when Cougar bumps his shoulder because his fingers are scrabbling on his thighs, typing code without his input. 

Instead, he says, "Y'know what I miss? Mustard. Good ol' fucking _mustard_. And not that high-quality grainy deli shit. I mean just yellow mustard that farts outta the bottle."

-

It’s hellfire and chaos. Cougar doesn’t miss because he _can’t_ miss, if he misses, his team could be torn to pieces, and from here, he can see Clay crouched behind a supply crate, Pooch is changing clips. Jensen is counting under his breath, it might be spent bullets, Cougar isn’t sure, but he puts a guard’s head in his crosshairs, watches half of it vanish after he pulls the trigger, he does this so Jensen can keep counting, _claro_. Roque says something, then there are footsteps behind his perch and he pulls a knife in time to slice across an enemy arm. 

An explosion and the building’s crumbling underneath him, he can’t move fast enough, he hears yelling and there’s a blooming wave of heat and force.

When he opens his eyes, he can’t hear, but he’s holding the knife and his rifle; Clay’s standing over him in the rubble, firing in the distance to cover him. 

Later, he’s covered in masonry dust, hat balanced on his knee and he can hear now as Pooch laughs and Jensen says, “Blessed be Cougar of the blood halo.”

Clay smiles, a little grim but relieved, and hands him a wet piece of cloth. “You got a little blood there.”

He’s still holding the knife when Jensen pulls his hair back and starts cleaning him.

-

“’Member that time it rained lizards ‘cause Roque shot up that container at the shipyards and it was full of geckos? Made me want a margarita.”

-

Cougar’s eyes follow him as Jensen sorts through laptop guts to find what he’s looking for, he knows it in the back of his mind, that little spot in his brain that reminds him someone is actually watching his back, someone will notice if he’s hurt or missing, but this is just another safehouse in another country and it’s not a firefight, it’s not anything spectacularly dangerous except how it _is_. It is because it’s Cougar and because Jensen wants and because it is what it is what it is.

Pooch nudges him as he’s stripping covering from a wire. “Amp this up, wouldja.”

“This ain’t no pimp my ride shit, Pooch.”

“Racist motherfucker, I gotta call Jolene, so fix this damn phone,” Pooch retorts, nudging him again though nudge is a relative term since it’s more like an affectionate shove and so Jensen fixes it balancing on one foot.

“There, tell her I’ll be home in time to eat her cookies and to _eat her sweet, sweet cookies_ ,” Jensen says, wiggling his eyebrows and Pooch aims a punch at his ribs, “Do you like living?”

“Hell yes.”

“Then shut your trap.”

Crooning to the phone, Pooch wanders off and Jensen hops onto his worktable, swinging his feet as he licks his fingers and twists wires. He sings to himself, lost in a tangle of copper until he realizes something’s changed.

The air’s different. He glances over his shoulder, but Cougar’s gone, silent in his boots, Jensen’s so fucking jealous of that, stupid exotic sniper ninja cat skills; Roque and Clay fucked off to find food and liquor somewhere in the lower half of the city and a radio’s playing outside.

He picks up the song, singing again, then Cougar’s in front of him, hands coming down on his knees to stop his movement.

“Cougs.”

The sniper puts a finger to his lips and Jensen hears it in his head, _cállate_. He realizes Pooch has gone quiet in the other room.

They grab their gear as fast as they can and disappear out the back. Cougar makes a motion to Pooch and Jensen; he’ll circle the building to catch Clay and Roque, he’ll be the one out in the open which is good because he speaks the fucking language in this country and it’s also very, very, very bad because he’ll be the one out in the open and the street might be a kill box.

Pooch nods, they have a rendezvous set up fifteen crooked blocks away in an abandoned garage, so he snags Jensen’s bag, pointing down the alley.

Cougar’s eyes follow him and Jensen grabs his wrist, squeezing until he can feel the sniper’s pulse, steady and calm, that rat bastard, and he sees a smirk under the brim of the hat before he lets go.

He doesn’t breathe until they’re all in the garage and Pooch is revving the engine of the rusted van, meaning _let’s get the ever-living fuck outta here_.

-

Clay says, “Up there,” so Cougar goes up there. Flat on his belly, he stares through the scope, surveying the compound. He’s cold, but it doesn’t matter; after a while, he doesn’t feel much. 

He shoots a guard and the man falls like a gust of wind blew him over. He shoots another guard so Clay can get inside the gate. He shoots out a spotlight so Roque can take out two patrolling soldiers. He shoots a sniper on the tower across the way so Jensen can disable the alarms.

“They’re like dominos, Cougs,” Jensen says into the comm, “falling all over themselves for you.”

Cougar smiles and Jensen makes a noise as if he could hear it and Roque says, “Stop with the fucking flirting, you little shit,” then Cougar shoots a soldier by the trucks because he can see Pooch’s boots as he’s saying, “Look at these babies, built like tanks, can I keep ‘em, Colonel, huh, can I?”

Jensen says, “If Pooch gets a fleet of trucks, I get a dragon. Always wanted a dragon. Or a griffin. Or a manticore. Chimera? Hydra. Kraken. No, dragon, definitely dragon with the flying and the fire-breathing and the—“

“You’ll get nothing and you’ll like it,” Roque retorts, then a gunshot echoes into the dark. “Fuck.”

“Cougar?”

He’s desperately searching for the location of the sound, “Not mine, not mine,” and then he spots it, a guard on a rooftop, firing at coyotes, “ _mira_ , two buildings east, boss,” so he shoots the asshole.

“The mountain lion strikes again,” Jensen intones, “much more awesome than a dragon.”

“Aw, now, see, you can have Cougar instead of a dragon, now will you please shut the fuck up so I can decide which of these trucks to take since Clay is a cantankerous, controlling sonuvabitch,” Pooch says.

Cougar rolls his eyes, mouth suddenly gone dry as Jensen disappears into a building. Radio silence and he scans the dark, listening to his heartbeat. Then Jensen says, “Shoot the target, win a prize.”

“ _Sí_ , bullseye,” he replies and Roque grouses, “I can’t work like this.”

-

Some days, it rains.

-

In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight and Jensen collects rainwater in plastic bottles. It’s cleanish and better than whatever the hell is in the rivers sometimes, so he collects water as it rains and passes the bottles around.

“What is this,” Clay says, holding the bottle away from him and Roque says, “Yeah, what _is_ this.”

Jensen was bored a few hours earlier, so he made his own labels, Losers Mountain Spring Water, straight from the Ozarks, and there’s a huge demonic skull with a waterfall gushing from between razor teeth. He might’ve added flames for decorative marketing flare. He thought about putting something about the water having extra vitamins and a superhero super serum to make them all even more amazing, but that would be false advertising.

“It’s water. You drink it. You could swim in it, bathe in it, use it for cooking, cleaning, first aid. Boil it, fry it, sautee it, roast it – so versatile.”

Pooch just looks at him, Clay shakes his head with a smirk, and Roque is still squinting at the label.

Jensen stands out in the rain, slowly being soaked to the bone, which is stupid because he’ll have to change clothes and it’s not like he can pack a lot in his gear, but it’s warm and nice and the sound helps his brain slow its chatter.

“Five card stud?” Pooch asks and Roque grins like he’s gone insane or more insane than he already is. 

He could use the money, but Jensen doesn’t feel like playing, he’s a little jittery, itching inside his skin as the water drops on his glasses, runs down his arms and legs. He wanders to check his other bottles, then Cougar materializes, rain dripping off his hat like a canopy, hair dark and curling on his shoulders.

He won’t make any cat-in-the-rain jokes, those wore out a few years ago, Cougar just falls in step next to him without a word and Jensen smiles. 

Cougar grabs his wrist as they walk the perimeter, pressing until his pulse is shooting like Cougar’s pulling a trigger.

“Something you wanna talk about?” Jensen asks, going for nonchalant, and Cougar nods, then thinks about it and shakes his head. “You sure?”

“Nosy.”

“Yes, I am. Proud of it. My sister taught me well.”

He reaches out, pushing up the brim of Cougar’s hat and fast like they’ve found a tripwire, Cougar kisses him.

Jensen kisses back, saying against Cougar’s mouth, “I’m so glad neither of us had to die.”

And he means neither of us had to be almost dying, neither of us had to be bleeding out in a muddy puddle, neither of us had to be taken hostage for five days and chained to a pipe in a basement. 

It’s fucking surreal and he takes as Cougar deepens the kiss, opening wider, rainwater pouring over them.

Cougar’s whispering words against Jensen’s throat, Spanish warm as the rain, and his teeth are sharp, so Jensen pulls him to the ground.

His fingers find the scar on Cougar’s temple, blessed be Cougar of the blood halo, and Cougar’s palm is cradling his skull, right where he thinks he’ll take a bullet someday.

It all fits together like a round in a chamber, ready to be fired.

-

Jensen touches the thorns on the tattoo, blue eyes serious. He’s quiet and Cougar’s concerned, but then Jensen smiles.

Cougar knows his faith isn’t misplaced. When Jensen falls asleep, he says a prayer as he puts the tech’s glasses in his boot.

Clay says with a smirk, “No misguided heroics. Otherwise, I don’t wanna know.” Roque says, “Same for me and stop with the kissy faces, Jensen, I mean it or I will punch you into next week, _this isn’t a fucking porn set_.” Pooch says, “Fix this phone so I can call Jolene. And congrats, you stupid fuckers.”

Then the next day, it rains blood and ash and a bullet grazes along Jensen’s thigh, Cougar grabbing his rifle and vaulting to the edge of a metal shack to shoot the man about to cut Pooch’s throat, to take down the other man about to put a knife in Jensen’s belly.

I’m so glad neither of us had to die, and in the back of a busted Jeep Pooch begged into working, Jensen grins sloppily at him, trying slurred phrases Cougar thinks Jensen thinks are Spanish. 

Cougar curls over him, to hold Jensen’s body still on the cow path of a road, and when Jensen puts fingers to his mouth, he realizes he’s praying and cursing in some sort of blasphemous mixture.

Clay shakes his head, hand on Jensen’s ankle to hold his leg. 

“He’s fine,” Roque says, voice deep, as he ties cloth around Jensen’s thigh. “I’ll bet he’ll even show you his scar.”

I’m so glad neither of us had to die.

“Just another day in paradise,” Jensen says. His hand slips to Cougar’s chest, over the tattoo, the thorns protecting the heart.

“Bullseye,” Cougar says.

**Author's Note:**

> I know who to blame and she knows it too. I'm rusty, so apologies everywhere. Title from CCR. If you'd like, you can leave a comment at my LJ [here.](http://bashfulbetty.livejournal.com/6767.html)


End file.
